Ships That Pass in the Night
by Cricket24
Summary: A chance meeting in a small airport in Alaska many years ago.... Characters: Scott and Logan - no slash


**A/N:** I wanted to write something a little different, something that I, myself, have yet to read out there in Scott/Logan Ficville. I wondered what it would be like if Logan had met Scott long before either one of them ever came to Xavier's School for the Gifted. Before Scott's mutation, before Logan's adamantium-laced skeleton. The timeline of events in this little fic may be a bit skewed, but in my X-Men universe, anything can happen. ;-)

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_**Title: **__Ships That Pass in the Night  
__**Rating: **__PG (for Logan's language)__**  
Characters: **__Scott and Logan (no slash) (Logan's POV)  
__**Timeline: **__AU, pre X1  
__**Summary: **__A chance meeting in a small airport in Alaska many years ago...  
__**Disclaimer: **__I own nothing and no one. :-(  
__**Reviews: **__Welcomed and appreciated. :-)_

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_**Ships That Pass in the Night**_

I hate to fly.

Well, to be honest, there are lots of things that I hate. Crowds. Clingy women. Know-it-alls. Cheap cigars. Expensive beer. Folks who put their nose where it don't belong. Being alive as long as I have, you learn to dislike a lot of things. But flying is definitely at the top of the Things I Hate List.

The ground has been good to me. Sometimes it's even been my bed for the night – or nights. I'd rather keep my feet firmly planted on it, thank you very much.

But sometimes flying is inevitable. And that's the main reason I'm sitting here smoking what's left of my last Fonseca, everything I own in a bag at my feet, waiting in this God forsaken terminal in the smallest airport in Alaska. Scratch that. The smallest airport on the planet. It'd be a lucky thing if a supermodel could take off on that tiny runway out there, much less a friggin' airplane. But I'm trying not to think too much about that.

Not that I can think much at all with all the racket that roaming kid's making. Scrawny little blond kid seems to be having a grand time running back and forth past my seat with his arms extended making annoying buzzing noises with his lips. Great. He's pretending to be a plane. How . . . irritating.

One pass "_buzz"_ . . .

. . . two "_buzzzz"_ . . .

. . . three "_buzzzzzz"_ . . .

. . . then _SPLAT! . . ."Whaaaaaaa!"_

Fuck! Why do things like this always happen to me? It's not my fault the clumsy kid can't watch where he's _flying _and trips over my bag. Now he's sitting on the floor in front of me rubbing his knees and wailing. All eyes in the damn airport turn in my direction. Where are the boy's parents for Christ's sake? Don't they teach their kids not to talk to strangers – much less wail like a goddamn ambulance in front of them?

I'm halfway out of my chair, preparing to pick the kid up off the ground and send him on his merry way (far away from me), when another boy streaks across the terminal heading this way. He reaches the sobbing child, bends down, puts his hands gently on the younger boy's knees, and quiets him with soothing whispers and hushed words.

A miracle. The blond kid stops crying. He even smiles. And now he's running off down the terminal happily buzzing and flapping his arms all the way.

The older, dark-haired boy turns to me. He can't be more than seven or eight years old himself, but the glare he's giving me makes him seem much older.

And his eyes. _Damn. _I've never seen a bluer pair of eyes. Reminds me of Moraine Lake in summer.

And, _Jesus, _where did that thought come from?

Anyway, he's just glaring at me with those piercing eyes. Like it's my fault his kid brother (or cousin, or friend, or _whatever_) tripped and fell.

"What?" I finally say.

"You should stow your travel bag under your chair while you wait. Then people won't trip over it."

Fuck me. The prim little brat is actually _lecturing_ me! I'd laugh if it didn't piss me off so much.

"It wasn't my fault he fell," I snarl. "Kids shouldn't be running around here without parental supervision anyway. This is not a playground." Take that, ya little twerp.

"It's also not an ashtray," he says, pointing to my smoldering cigar. "Or did you just not care to notice the No Smoking signs posted at every entrance?"

Cocky. Little. Bastard. Who died and made him Airport Patrol? And why the _fuck_ am I even conversing with a self-righteous eight-year-old?

I feel the growl rumble in my throat.

"Listen, kid, I don't know who you think you are—"

"Scott!" Someone shouts from the other end of the terminal. It's the buzzing blond boy. "C'mon, Scott! Mom says Dad's got da airpwane weddy ta go! C'mon!"

"I'll be right there, Alex," The kid calls over his shoulder.

He turns back to me, still eyeing my cigar. Then his eyes meet mine again. And something passes between us.

Before I realize what I'm doing, I stub out the burning cig on my palm. The boy winces as my flesh singes and crackles beneath the red hot embers. I wince too. As many times as I've done this it still mother-fucking _hurts_. But then the skin bubbles and smoothes. Pink scars nit together and then disappear. The wound is gone in mere seconds.

The kid watches in amazement, eyes widening, and then he looks up, searching my own eyes. I see the questions turning in his mind, but he doesn't speak. And I sense that he's not afraid. No, I don't smell any fear on him. What he'd seen happen to my hand surprised him, but it didn't scare him. And wasn't _that_ a kick in the pants.

"Scotty! Mom says ya gotta come right now!"

He doesn't turn to acknowledge the younger boy this time. Instead, he slowly smiles. At me. And again, I feel . . . _something_. A kind of – I don't know – kinship? It's friggin' _weird_.

The moment passes, and the blue-eyed boy turns to leave. He looks back after a few steps and nods to me. I return the gesture, though I don't really know why. Reaction, I guess.

But I watch him go. He walks out of the terminal with the blond kid and a petite, sandy-haired young woman whom I'm guessing is their mother.

My mind winks back to the here-and-now as a nasally voice barks over the loudspeaker that Flight 1422 to Echo Valley, Canada, is now boarding. Looks like I'm heading out of this one-horse airport, too.

I grab my bag and head to the gate. The line to board is short, because, well, the plane is small, and that's something else I'd rather not think about. And I'm guessing none of these traveling folk are headed to Alkali Lake to participate in the Weapon X Project or whatever the hell that Stryker guy called it. I'm not even sure _I _want to participate in the guy's little pet project, but I'll make up my mind when I get there. That is _if _I get there.

I hate to friggin' fly.

I'd rather be fishing off the shoreline of Moraine Lake, soaking up the endless, bottomless blue.

_**End**_

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**A/N:** So that's the little ficlet that's been buzzing (haha) around in my head. Hey, it could've happened. ;-) Anyone else wonder if maybe this fic shows events just before the Summers family's fateful last flight together? Hmmm...Lot's of possibilities.

PS: I recommend image searching Moraine Lake to get the full effect of the _blue_. ;-)


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